War Storm
Page 135

Our flagship shudders under us, clanking as something rams the hull beneath the surface.
“Push, Iris, push,” Mother commands, letting go of me to rush to the edge of the deck. She leans forward, arms outstretched, and the waters below obey her will, rushing backward in waves.
I join her, letting my ability take hold. I press and push, trying to dislodge whatever is ramming the ship. But it’s so heavy, so big, with an engine of its own.
We’re so focused on protecting the flagship, I hardly notice the rest of the armada floundering all around us. Without orders, a few of the ships painstakingly try to turn, navigating the foaming river among the growing steel hulks bobbing and sinking. Sweat breaks out across my brow, joining with the hurtling rain, and I taste salt on my lips. It stings, forcing me to blink and lose focus.
“Mother,” I force out.
She doesn’t answer, her hands clawed into the mist, as if she can lift the new weaponry directly out of the water. She snarls a little, the sound lost in the howling wind.
Lightning flashes again, another blue bolt striking down. I’m not fast enough to deflect it and it hits home on the ship next to us, striking the deck with the sizzle of water and flesh. Soldiers scream, leaping off the ship entirely to escape the glowing hell of electrocution. They’re quickly swallowed by the churning waters.
“Mother!” I say again, shouting this time.
She curses through gritted teeth. “Those Red bastards have boats below the water. Boats and weapons.”
“We can’t stop them, can we?”
Her eyes shine, bright even against the storm and the sudden shift in our fortunes. Without warning, she drops her hands. “Not without great loss. And not with any guarantees,” she murmurs, as if dazed.
I try to shake her out of it. “We have to get up to the cliffs, get on land. We can still overwhelm their forces—”
Behind us, our guards close in, tense and ready to spring. Waiting for my mother’s command.
She ignores them, staring at me instead. “Can we?” she says, her voice oddly soft and detached. Like she’s been sleeping, and now she is awake.
Mother pats me on the cheek, her touch cold and wet. She looks past me, fixating on the deck. I turn to follow her gaze, only to see the last of Samos’s blood darkening against the steel. The last piece of our revenge. Even the rain can’t wash it away. Even the gods can’t heal this pain.
I flinch as another ship succumbs to attack, keeling over into the river. “Is this finally ended?” I wonder aloud.
Her fingers lace with mine.
“Ended?” she breathes, squeezing my hand. “Never, not truly. But for now, I’m getting my daughter out of here alive.”
For the first time today, I look backward, downriver. Toward retreat. I swallow hard, dazed by the sudden turn in the battle. It feels like being cut open.
But there is only one choice between death and defeat.
“Let’s go home.”
THIRTY-SIX
Maven
After so many days in captivity, smothered by Silent Stone and separated from my bracelets, the burst of flame is more quenching than water to a thirsty man. I let it lick up inside me, trailing like a lover’s kiss, and explode along my skin, powerful and furious enough to throw back that wretched electricon. He falls and Mare falls too, both of them slamming backward onto the hard tile of Caesar’s Square.
I don’t spare a glance for her as I run, leaving fire in my wake, a wall to defend my escape. I keep another burst of flame close, coiling in my fist, using all my energy to keep it burning. My feet carry me over the Square and I sprint like never before. I’m not Cal, I’m not particularly fast or strong, but fear keeps me alert and daring. The chaos of Archeon works to my advantage, not to mention my intimate knowledge of the palace. Whitefire was my home, and I have not forgotten it.
The sudden arrival of hundreds of Scarlet Guard soldiers is more than enough to distract Cal’s troops, still trying to organize themselves against the Lakelander assault. Nevertheless, I keep my head down, black hair falling forward to obscure my all-too-recognizable face.
These soldiers were mine. Should still be mine.
The voice in my head shifts from my own to hers.
Fools, all of them, my mother sneers. I can almost feel her hands ghosting along my shoulders, keeping me upright as I run. Replacing you with that wretched, spineless boy. He will be the end of a dynasty. The end of an age.
She isn’t wrong. She was never truly wrong.
If only Father could see you now, Cal. See what you’ve become, and what you’ve done to his kingdom.
Of all my many wishes and regrets, that one cuts deepest. My father is dead, but he died loving Cal, trusting Cal, believing in Cal’s greatness and perfection. I wonder if I should have let things run their course. If somehow I could have simply made him see how flawed the perfect son was.
But Mother had her reasons. She knew best.
And that is simply another path untaken. A dead future, as Jon would say.
Another missile explodes nearby, and as before, I use the resulting explosion to my advantage. It breaks around me, harmless, allowing me to escape through a bloom of smoke and fire. I can’t return to the Treasury tunnels, not with those Red rats still crawling around. But there are other ways down to the tracks, other ways to get out of Archeon undetected. The ways I know best are in Whitefire itself, and I beat a path to the palace as quickly as I can.
That damn train. I curse whoever stole it, whatever sniveling weasel is now riding along, safe and sound. At least I can still walk the track. I’m well accustomed to darkness by now. What’s a few more miles?
Nothing at all. I’ve always felt darkness all over me, stubborn as a stain. It follows wherever I go.
And where will I go? Where can I go?
I’m a fallen king, a murderer, a betrayer. A monster to anyone with eyes and a modicum of sense. They’ll kill me in the Lakelands, in Montfort, in my own country. I deserve it, I think as I run. I should be dead a thousand times, executed in a hundred different ways, each one more painful than the last.
I think of Mare behind me, sprawled across the tiles of the Square. Picking herself up again, ready to give chase. My brother too, leading some stupidly valiant effort to defend the city and his ill-gotten throne. I scoff at the thought as I vault up the steps of Whitefire, flying over familiar stone. The flame in my palm gutters, reducing to a flicker before I push it back to life, letting it envelop my hand.
The interior is just as empty as the Square is full. Whatever nobles and courtiers aren’t out fighting must be deep within the palace, barricaded in their rooms, or perhaps they’ve fled too. Either way, my footsteps are the only sound as I cross the entrance hall, my path familiar as my own heartbeat.
Even though it’s midday, the halls are dark and cold, with the windows clouded by fog and smoke. Electricity flickers as the power grid reacts to the battle outside, turning the lights on and off in patternless bursts. Good, I think. In my gray clothing, I can blend into the shadows of Whitefire. I used to do it as a boy, hide in alcoves or behind curtains. Spying and listening, not for my mother then, but for my own curiosity.
Cal used to spy with me, when he had the time. Or cover for me at Lessons, telling tutors I was sick or otherwise detained. Odd, that I can remember all that, but that the emotion behind it, the connection we must have had, is almost entirely gone. Severed or surgically removed by my mother. And no one can ever make it grow back.